Colossal, un-afraid, and pretentious in all your grandeur, 

you pesky mortals do not understand the plight in which I live my life. 

You panic for losing your petty objects, 

while the real murder has already happened. 

I am dead. 

I have been lost. 

But not to you. 

You poor mortal, monster, with which a delicate heart nests. 

Snug in your house of comfort, 

while I build one that was destroyed by your murdering hands. 

Your weary body by nightfall,

is but an unsharpened pencil to my tender guts laced around a metal contraption. 

As winter descends, you are protected by a roof of bricks and a blanket of wool. 

But alas!

I live under a crumbling dirt roof, and a torn blanket of faith. 

I rebuild my home, unaware of the trouble, 

while you gloat in your chamber of protection.

Why should I suffer?

I am but a mouse, with the fur of fear, 

while you are a human, with the mind of God.

Don’t I deserve your sympathy? 

No, I don’t. 

I deserve death, by the colossal, un-afraid, and pretentious mortal. 

Because I am merely a mouse living in the world of men.